Like Father, Like Son
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Mandrea. Oneshot. Sometimes the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree, but Merle will accept all the help he can get if it means getting her attention. Merle/Andrea Rated for Dixon mouth.


**AN: So this was for a tumblr anon who wanted Mandrea and the prompt about "my kid pulling your hair".**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Merle felt like he had an impressive list of thing that he was good at doing. He could, for instance, rewire just about anything that was put in front of him with enough time to study the damn thing. Granted, he'd gotten shocked a few times and almost burned down a buddy's shop learning this talent, but it was his now—and now he almost never had any problems. He was good at tinkering with cars. He could figure out most any small problem and he could even muddle his way through a few of the bigger ones. Regular maintenance on a car was no bigger a deal to Merle Dixon than was brushing his own teeth or wiping his ass. He worked in construction, too, so he'd picked up enough plumbing know-how in his free time to get by and he could probably frame a house by himself if he really had to.

Merle had a lot of talents.

What he'd never thought he'd add to his already impressive list of talents, though, was that he could change a diaper in less than ten seconds if everything was set up right—and the diaper wasn't something out of nightmares. He could find a pacifier in the pitch black no matter where it was hidden. He could measure, warm up, and serve a bottle that was damn near gourmet at three a.m. with the lights off.

And he could do all of these things while holding a baby—irate or otherwise.

Some of these were talents that Merle never planned to have. Some of them weren't talents that he set out to learn. They were just things that he learned out of necessity. They were things that he learned out of the drive to survive.

Merle Jr. – M.J. – was just a few days past the six month mark of when he'd come into the world—red-faced and red-assed—and when he'd consequently flipped Merle's entire world on its head. A one night stand gone wrong and Merle had found himself sitting across a diner table from a woman and having a discussion about what the hell to do about a baby that was, at that time, nothing more than a couple of lines on a stick that she'd pissed on. Merle had offered her the money to do what she was talking about doing, but in the end she didn't want to go through with it. In the end, she didn't think that she could live with that. She'd give the kid up, she decided. Put it into the system. That was something she could live with a lot better.

But, oddly enough, Merle found that it wasn't something that he could live with. He might very well have twenty or thirty kids running around there—somewhere throughout Georgia and the Carolinas, and maybe further than that—but he didn't know about them. He didn't know they existed so he didn't know he was being a piece of shit old man to them. He didn't really have any responsibility to children that may or may not exist.

But he knew that M.J. existed. And he knew that he was coming into this world. And he knew that the system was shit—everything run by the government was shit in Merle's opinion—and he'd probably come out of there being just another juvenile delinquent. He'd probably come out of there living fully up to his name—just another Dixon fucking up his life one day at a time.

So he'd asked her one last time if she wanted the kid and she'd said, one last time, that she didn't and Merle had gotten a lawyer. It was the first time he'd ever hired one not to get his ass out of trouble. In fact, in a lot of ways, he was hiring that one to get him into trouble. He did everything he had to do so that it was all done right and legal and the courts couldn't say shit about it, and one day after M.J. was born, Merle walked out of the hospital—sweating bullets and swearing to himself he wasn't going to puke in the parking lot—carrying a baby carrier that held the most frightening thing that Merle had ever seen that came in at a heavy weight of seven pounds and two ounces.

And somehow?

The damn thing made it through the night. He made it through the next night too, even though Merle doubted that would be the case. It kept being the case, though, through every single night that followed. Merle became the kind of guy that, instead of going to the bar after work on Friday night, rushed out of work as fast as he could to get to Daycare. He became the kind of guy that considered a "lucky" night to be the kind where the kid slept more than he didn't sleep. He became the kind of guy that declared the kid hated to sleep alone—and so he had to sleep with him—because, really, he hated to sleep without the kid and he couldn't see where it would hurt a damn thing anyway.

They visited family—since Daryl's brother and his wife lived nearby—but mostly they were just two men on their own. It didn't matter at all that one of them wasn't wholly a gourmet of solid foods yet.

When Merle swung by the grocery for a couple of things that he needed, he didn't bother even trying to get M.J. into the stupid little seat on the front of the cart. Some people's kids might have liked the damn thing, but M.J. saw it as one of the ultimate tests to his freedom. He would wiggle and squirm and arch his back—protesting everything about his existence—until Merle was pretty damn sure he'd break his neck somehow. Now Merle didn't even bother with the damn thing. He simply propped the kid up on one hip, wrapped an arm around him, and went about what the hell he had to do.

In fact, he'd gotten so good at doing things with M.J. in his arms that he joked that if he were ever to lose an arm, he'd be just fine. He really didn't need both—so long as M.J. could walk by the time he had whatever the unfortunate accident might be.

Merle pushed the cart along, absentmindedly, wrestling his son while he tried to remember all the things that he'd told himself he didn't need to write down. He liked to keep shopping trips—or wrestling matches as they sometimes seemed to be—as short and sweet as possible. Coming straight from work and the daycare with M.J. meant that the boy was already hungry and he was anxious to get something to eat and to get to his big ass play mat in the middle of the floor where he rolled around to his heart's content. Being toted through the supermarket wasn't, in the baby's mind, half as much fun and it meant that he had a very short tolerance for it.

The fighting against him, Merle could tolerate. The squirming attempts to escape the hold that he had on his M.J.'s body, he could stand. What he couldn't take, however, was when M.J. launched into full-fledged hysterics because he wasn't getting his way and he was done with this shopping trip.

"I'm trying to get your food," Merle said, not even caring who saw him arguing with a six month old child. "If you didn't eat so much and then crap out three times as much as ya ate, we wouldn't have to do this every couple days."

M.J., of course, didn't respond. He continued to have his fit, angrily fighting against Merle, until Merle finally put down the vanilla flavored crackers he was looking at and turned his attention to trying to put M.J. into the cart. His son, though, already knew what was happening and locked his knees with enough force that Merle was pretty sure that the only way they'd bend was if they broke.

"You're goin' in the cart. You gonna pitch a fit one way or another so you can just pitch it in there," Merle declared, still losing the fight against the cart.

He didn't even care that people were looking at him. He didn't even care that he knew they were purposefully leaving the aisle to go somewhere else. It was bad enough that he had a child losing his mind in the grocery store, but on top of that Merle knew that he typically drew unwarranted attention and concern. People looked at him like they expected him to do something—something horrible—and like that would be the reason that the kid was losing his mind. They seldom took into account the fact that it might be that he was just tired and hungry and really would rather be at home where he could crawl around on his mat in just a diaper without anyone passing judgment on either of them.

M.J., like Merle, was damn near allergic to people's petty ass judgment.

"It doesn't look like he wants to go in that cart," a voice said.

Merle snatched his head in the direction of the woman's voice. He expected it to be another soccer mom, her brood on hand, looking at him with her twisted little sour face—waiting to point out what he was doing wrong—but the woman staring at him, a box of the vanilla crackers in her hand, was smiling.

And Merle smiled back for a second before he was snatched back to his reality by M.J.'s fit. He stopped trying to stuff him into the seat and accepted the head butt that he got for having such a bad idea in the first place.

"He hates the seat," Merle said. "But—right now he don't like nothing no way."

The woman smiled and leaned closer to M.J., offering him his very own one of her smiles. Then she drew up her face in over dramatic concern.

"Oh goodness," she cooed at the baby. "He's having a bad day?"

"Every day we don't go straight home is a bad day," Merle said.

Merle did notice that M.J., intrigued by the woman's face or perhaps intoxicated by her perfume, stopped his fit for a moment and stared at her—snotty nose and all. Sometimes Merle realized that maybe the apple didn't fall too far from the proverbial tree.

"That means home must be a happy place," the woman said, looking at Merle from the slightly awkward position where she was keeping her face close to M.J.

Merle smiled at her. She was pretty—he hadn't been this close to a pretty woman since he'd become the proud Papa to the boy.

"Think so," Merle said. "Pretty nice place. Not a whole lot of excitement, but there ain't no cover charge and the ambience is pretty decent."

She laughed and straightened up.

"Sounds like a pretty nice place to me," she said.

Merle hummed. His mind was racing. Once upon a time it wouldn't have taken him a half a second to figure out something clever to say to the woman, but he felt like he'd lost that when he'd lost the ability to sleep when he wanted and lubricate any of his inhibitions with enough beer to make him a medical mystery next to alcohol poisoning.

He didn't have to say anything, though. He was saved by his son. M.J., angry that she'd moved away from him, started to fuss again and she immediately plastered back on the concerned look and leaned close to him.

"You're just wanting some attention, aren't you?" She said to the baby. The truth was, and Merle knew it, that M.J. always wanted attention. The more the merrier. And if it happened to come from a pretty lady, well it appeared that was even better. "Can I hold him?" She asked. It took Merle a moment to realize that she was speaking to him.

"What?" Merle asked.

"Can I hold him?" She asked, tucking the box of crackers under her arm and gesturing toward M.J. "Just for a minute?"

Merle shrugged. Sure. She could hold him. The lady at the checkout could hold him. The one down at the bank that wanted to offer him suckers that Merle couldn't let him have because he didn't want him to choke to death could hold him. Merle didn't have any issues with letting someone else hold him for a minute—not as long as he knew where the hell they were. And right now? He knew they were in aisle seven at the Stop and Save. Merle quickly passed M.J. over and the boy went happily enough. The woman hugged him against her and sniffed at his forehead—and Merle knew why. It always smelled nice. And he made sure that he wiped it, every now and again, with one of those nice smelling cloths just to make it smell extra nice—but he wouldn't ever tell M.J. that.

"What's his name?" She asked.

"M.J.," Merle responded. "Merle Jr. And—I'm Merle. Senior."

She offered him a wide smile then and extended the hand that wasn't supporting the boy and the box of crackers of which he'd now taken possession.

"Andrea," she said. "Harrison."

"Dixon," Merle added, accepting the handshake.

Before Merle could say anything—and before he even realized what was happening—an alarmed expression came over Andrea's face. Merle wasn't sure what it was owing to, right away, until it grew more concerned and she yelped. She snatched her hand back and Merle realized, with some horror, that his son had a handful of her hair and was doing everything in his power to take it right out of her scalp—and the little fucker looked just as pleased as punch with himself over it too.

"Shit," Merle said, catching himself only after it came out. He was trying to do better with M.J. around, but he'd already accepted that his son was going to be the kid at daycare with a very colorful vocabulary. Merle immediately dove in to try to peel open M.J.'s fist, locked down like a vice on the blonde's hair, and her hand half covered his as she did the same. All the while, M.J. thought it was the best game ever and continued to jerk at her hair. Merle suspected that the box of crackers was all that was saving her from having both of his hands planted in there. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry, Merle muttered. "He don't—I didn't know he'd do that."

Andrea laughed, despite the fact she was being scalped, and leaned into M.J.'s tugging while Merle wrestled her free.

"His mother has short hair?" Andrea asked.

"What?" Merle asked, still working on freeing her since M.J. had managed to loop her hair in every direction around each of his tiny fingers.

"His mother has short hair? So he doesn't pull it?" Andrea asked.

"Don't much know," Merle said. "He wouldn't neither. He ain't never seen her. Not even when he was borned."

Merle finally freed Andrea's hair and immediately took the boy back from her to keep him from making another dive for her hair. M.J. whined a little about it, but seemed satisfied with the few strands of hair that he retained twined around his fingers—like a trophy of sorts.

Andrea rubbed at her head, where he'd yanked the pieces free, and laughed nervously.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have asked—about his mother."

"Fair guess," Merle said. "Kid had to come from somewhere, right?"

Andrea smiled and nodded and Merle took the box of crackers back and offered them to Andrea. She accepted them and thanked him quietly. She was looking around—like she was searching for something. More than likely, it was a way out of here. Merle cleared his throat and decided to cut her free.

"Sorry about your hair," Merle said.

Andrea shook her head.

"Doesn't matter," she said. "I love babies. That comes with the territory."

Merle hummed.

"You got kids?" He asked.

Andrea shook her head.

"Not yet," she said. "But—there's always someday, right?"

Merle nodded. She wasn't leaving and he didn't know how to set her free any more than she seemed to know how to escape. Usually when women wanted to go, they just went. Merle wasn't really sure how the hell to turn one loose—at least not one that he didn't care to offend. He hummed, searching for something to say.

"Hey—listen..." Andrea said, sounding unsure of the words that she was saying. Merle raised his eyebrows at her in question and he thought she blushed slightly pink. She distracted herself by leaning close to M. J. and making a face at him. The act pleased the boy and she moved back quickly when he made another dive for her hair. But, honestly, Merle couldn't blame his son for his enthusiasm. She was pretty. He wouldn't mind pulling her hair a little himself—though he wouldn't do it in the middle of the supermarket aisle and it wouldn't be nearly as innocent as what M.J. was after. "This might—be a little forward—but...if you'd like to...I don't know...have dinner sometime?"

Merle stepped back a half step. He'd done a hell of a lot of chasing skirt in his life before, but never in the supermarket. And, really, he didn't think he could ever remember a time that it had been a woman that had asked him out—at least not for dinner. He smiled to himself, pleased with the turn of events. But then he had to shake his head at her, as much as he didn't want to decline.

"Listen," he said, "ain't that I don't want to but—he stays at daycare all day long. And I don't even got a sitter unless it's my sister-in-law and she's got her hands full with her own kids."

Andrea smiled and shook her head.

"I understand," she said. "I meant—I didn't mean..."

She stopped and visibly took a breath. She renewed her smile.

"Let me try this again," she said. "I'm Andrea Harrison. And—this is probably the most forward thing I've ever done before so—let me down easy? But I was trying to ask if you wanted to have dinner sometime. All of us. All three of us."

Merle raised his eyebrows at her.

"M.J. too?" He asked.

Andrea cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Who else were you figuring into the three?" She asked.

Merle smirked. At the exact moment that he was embarrassed by his stupid question, the quick reactions that he used to know returned to him and he thought of an answer to that question—an answer that he wouldn't put to words. She seemed to understand it, though, because her expression changed and she looked at him with some challenge as she rocked on her feet.

"Dinner?" She asked. "Or—should I just keep shopping?"

Merle cleared his throat.

"Dinner," he said. "My place? I make a mean roast."

Andrea smiled.

"I'll make potato salad and..." she held up the box of crackers and waved them at him, "a banana pudding?"

While she was talking, she fumbled around with her phone. She handed it to Merle, already set for him to enter his contact information.

"When?" Merle asked.

"Your call," Andrea responded. "You're the one who has—a little someone to think about. And—for the record? I was talking about the baby."

Merle chuckled and looked at her. He passed her phone back to her and, throughout the whole transaction, her eyes never left his. Her eyes were beautiful too.

"Tomorrow," Merle said. "That way—you ain't got time to change your mind."

"You either," Andrea said.

"Sugar, I ain't gonna change my mind," Merle said.

He might have come up with something else to say—something more to fuel the mood—but the whole thing was interrupted when M.J. lunged at her again. Merle caught him and pulled him back before he could grab her or hit the floor, though either might have been possible.

"I—better get him home," Merle said.

"See you tomorrow?" Andrea asked. "I'll text you?"

Merle hummed and nodded.

"Lookin' forward to it already," Merle said.

Andrea smiled and leaned down, pinching at M.J.'s cheeks.

"And I'll bring a hair tie," she said.

Quickly, as quickly as she'd appeared, Andrea left and rounded the side of the aisle. She waved at Merle and M.J. both until she was out of sight. Merle stood there for a moment, surprised by the whole turn of events, before he finally shifted M.J.'s weight and snapped out of his stupor enough to finish his shopping, smiling to himself the whole time he was picking out snacks for the kid.

"I gotta teach you some manners," Merle muttered to his son. "You don't pull no woman's hair." He chuckled to himself. "At least, not until she asks you to do it."

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 **AN: And, for the record, I keep getting anonymous requests on my Mandrea stories for Meth (Merle/Beth). I don't write Beth in any pairing. I'm not going to start now. If you'd like to make requests for pairings that I do write, please do so. Thank you for understanding.**


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